Bishop Smucker coughed. “Maybe nobody needs bread. But bread and butter are good to eat on the side.”
“So, we need to get butter pats now, too?” Samuel frowned.
“We are planning to feed at least seven hundred. It’s a lot of butter pats.” Bishop Smucker nodded.
Silas shook his head. “Does the foundation have any money to spend?” He shouldn’t have asked. Of course, they’d try to spend as little money as possible. But sometimes, spending a little money was necessary.
Henry stood up and moved over to the easel. He took out a marker. “Friends, we need to remember why we’re doing this. We’re going to make a difference in the community and show the village we care, and they’ll get behind us. Maybe we won’t agree on butter pats and such, but to me, butter pats are a minor thing. Even if there’s over seven hundred of them.”
“I agree,” Bishop Smucker said.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Rochelle glanced at Silas. “I believe I need a dessert.”
Rochelle went to the counter and bought a chocolate fried pie, then returned to the table.
“Do we have flyers prepared?” Silas ventured to ask. The men were well intentioned, but the meeting’s direction had careened along a rabbit trail.
“No.” Henry added flyers to the to-do list. “We hadn’t quite decided on a price yet, so we had to hold off on printing the flyers. But we plan to print at least one hundred, for people to post. Also, we need someone to post flyers on light poles in the village and at the post office.”
“We should vote on a price.” Bishop Smucker looked at Silas. “I like Mr. Fry’s idea. Eight dollars, for this fund-raiser, and if anyone chooses to donate the change, all the better.”
“Let’s take a vote,” Henry said. The vote passed, five to one, with Samuel Byler casting the lone dissenting vote.
“I’ll note we approved the price for the catfish supper,” said Uncle Tobias, who evidently was acting as the group’s note keeper.
It had taken them nearly half an hour with this roundabout discussion. Silas hoped the rest of the meeting would go more quickly.
He glanced at Rochelle, who seemed to be savoring every bite of her fried pie. Then again, more time with Rochelle wasn’t such a bad thing.
* * *
Two hours later, twilight had descended on Pinecraft, but the foundation committee had come up with a price for the meal, a full menu, wording for the flyers, and somehow Rochelle found herself in charge of securing desserts to go with the more than seven hundred catfish plates they planned to sell.
Seven hundred desserts? She’d participated in haystack suppers before through the church, but nothing as large as this. And to pull it together in two weeks.
She helped herself to a large cup of coffee and apologized to Betsy for them staying so long at the shop. Betsy was wiping down the counters before closing for the evening.
“I don’t mind, Aenti Chelle. I think the men bought two desserts apiece.” Betsy, ever cheerful, grinned as she cleaned.
Silas lingered in the background after the other men left for home, their wives likely having to keep supper warm for them tonight.
“Walk you home?” he asked her when she picked up her tote bag on the nearest chair.
“I took my bicycle.”
“I see. Well, I can walk fast.”
She laughed as they left the bakery. Night fell, and temperatures dropped slightly. “If you want to keep up. I suppose I can pedal slowly.”
“How are you going to drink coffee on the way home?” He studied the covered foam cup she held.
“I can ride with one hand. I learned how when I was eight.” She couldn’t resist a little bit of sass.
“Very funny.”
She did hand him her coffee as she took her seat on the bicycle, then accepted the cup back from him. “So, what did you think of the meeting tonight?”
“I think we’re going to have an interesting time.”
“Interesting is right. But I like what they’re doing. If we sell out, we’ll have plenty of money to fix the pavilion roof.” She pushed off with her foot, steering with her free hand, and inched along the street.
“I agree. What are you going to suggest for dessert?”
“Cupcakes. They’re portable, fast, and easy to carry. We won’t need a dessert plate for them, either.”
“I can see if Aunt Frances can make some.”
“Oh, would you? I don’t know if I have money I can give people for supplies, but if a few ladies each make four dozen, we’ll end up with plenty.”
Streetlights illuminated their way home. The streets were nearly deserted. The main vacation season in Pinecraft hadn’t begun yet, but wasn’t far off. A trio of dark figures a block away made Rochelle freeze.
She kept going, listening to Silas talk about the flyer wording, how he was going to type it on the computer, print it out, and bring a copy of the file to the printers who volunteered their services.
Rochelle paused under the streetlight. The figures drew closer. They weren’t Amish or Mennonite. Some young men in regular street clothes. One bounced a basketball. People visited the park, as it was open to the public. Nobody restricted anyone from coming in. Even a homeless person slept in the park here and there.
“Are you all right?” Silas asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice at the moment. Years ago, when everything changed for them, it had been another walk home, but with two other people who were no longer with them, both gone before their time.
“I’m . . .” Breathe, Rochelle. Breathe. The young men didn’t want to hurt her or anyone. Just some locals, heading to play basketball, a pickup game, she’d heard them called.
Her hand clutching the handlebar went numb, along with the rest of her. She hadn’t felt this way in years. Maybe it was because Silas stood beside her.
He placed his hand on hers. “It’s all right, Rochelle.”
The young men, talking and laughing, paid the two of them no mind as they passed by on the opposite side of the street.
She didn’t let herself look over her shoulder at them, but forced herself to keep moving forward in the direction of home and safety.
* * *
Rochelle, 19
Twilight had come as the four of them walked along, feeling the first chill of fall in the air. John and Belinda, Silas and Rochelle, couples together. They’d picked apples and laughed and talked, then John’s grandmother had fed them all an early supper. A perfect afternoon.
“What will you make with our apples?” Silas asked Rochelle, tightening the grip on the bushel basket they carried between them.
“Pie, of course. Maybe some fried pies.” She smiled at him. “Our” apples, he’d said.
“I’m going to make apple bread,” Belinda said as she shared a grin of her own with John.
“If you don’t burn it this time.” John’s gentle taunt made them all laugh.
She could do this for the rest of her life, spend happy afternoons like this with Silas. And John and Belinda. She realized for the past few hours, she hadn’t thought of her mother at all.
Part of her felt a bit guilty about letting her mother slip from her mind. She did miss her mother, but it felt so good for life to be normal again, if only for a few hours.
A vehicle approached, then slowed to a crawl, a dark four-door sedan.
“Hey, looking good, ladies. Love that walk!” a gravelly male voice called out.
Rochelle’s spine stiffened and she stopped on the roadside, as did Belinda. Silas and John stopped as well.
The car sped off.
“What is wrong with people?” Belinda said, her voice high-pitched.
“They’re mean, is what.” John gave a little tug on the basket. “C’mon, not much farther. Then you can get to apple peeling.”
“Bossy man.” Belinda spoke the words gently, and smiled at him.
Rochelle’s heart pounded, but she forced her feet along. The sooner they arrived
home, the better. For some reason, the tree-lined road felt darker, and not for the reason of the lengthening shadows.
They continued along as the road grew dark, with the fields beyond still holding a golden glow of leftover light.
A roar made them look up. The same car, with the same loud-mouthed man. No, there were two. Another one in the passenger seat.
It screeched to a halt. A man leapt from the passenger side.
He held a baseball bat.
Frame by frame, the next sequences seared themselves into Rochelle’s memory forever.
John and Silas, releasing their hold on the bushels they helped carry.
Someone shouting for wallets and money and rings.
“Wait, please,” from John.
Profanity, slamming into each of them like a fist.
“No—” A strangling word from Belinda.
She pulled away from the man who’d grabbed her by the kapp.
The swinging of the baseball bat.
Screams. Rochelle’s throat hurt. She sank to the ground. God, please—
She felt the pavement, pricking through the fabric of her dress and biting her knees. Then the sounds of more profanity, guttural laughter, and screams. The sound of something cracking.
John, slumped to the road, looking at Rochelle with his big brown eyes, blood streaming from his forehead and covering the pavement. “Help.”
“Do something! Silas!” She screamed, looking up at Silas, who faced the men down. “Help him.”
Do something, Silas, the strange male voices mocked her.
Silas only stood there as the pair drove off into the descending night.
An apple rolled toward John, whose eyes stared up at nothing as Belinda crawled to him, clamping her hand onto his skull, as his blood streamed between her fingers.
No, no, no.
11
Since the evening walking home from the Heritage Committee meeting last week, Rochelle hadn’t seen Silas except at church. But thinking about her reaction to seeing a group of young men simply heading to play basketball in the park still rattled her a bit. She hadn’t had such a tremor of panic in years. She’d seen young people in the park plenty of times, young men who weren’t Plain.
Why did the sensation of almost paralyzing fear come upon her the other evening? After witnessing John’s death, it had taken time for Rochelle to walk outside alone again, and she used to avoid the practice. Even now, she occasionally felt the need to glance over her shoulder, although in the village she felt relatively safe. When she spoke with Beatrice, her pastor’s wife, about what happened, her friend believed Silas being there brought back the feeling of the night John died. It made sense.
Today, a sunny day told her she ought to be upbeat and excited about the fish fry, and so she dug up some enthusiasm for the event. Caring for the park’s pavilion was a worthy cause, and today’s meal would show the community, and the city as well, the villagers cared for the park.
She found the last parking spot at the park, thankful she’d gone early enough. Of course, parking on site meant she’d likely be one of the last to leave. She came alone today; Betsy had the bakery, and Emma was working a shift at Der Dutchman, but promised to meet her at the park for a plate. Rochelle told the young women ahead of time she’d purchase plates for all three of them.
The men had set up a trio of fryers. Several large jugs of cooking oil stood nearby, along with propane tanks for fuel to keep the oil in the fryers hot. A wide expanse of large foil pans were arranged on a series of tables beneath the trees dripping with Spanish moss.
“I’ve got the cupcakes, at least three hundred,” she called out to Henry Hostetler as she approached. “Do we have a table ready for the desserts?”
“Right over here.” Henry stood at a far table, where already someone had dropped off several trays of cupcakes. A few pans of some type of dessert, crowned with mounds of whipped cream, lay next to them.
“Good. A few of the women who agreed to bring desserts said they’d drop them off here early.” Rochelle surveyed the desserts. “I’ll get my cupcakes and Beatrice’s from the back of my van.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Silas said.
She smiled. She hadn’t seen him when she arrived and wondered when he’d arrive at the park.
“How are you doing?” He glanced at her as she opened the rear hatch of her van.
“Doing well. Busy. And looking forward to today, also.” She picked up a tray of cupcakes and handed them to Silas.
“These look good. Can I have one?”
“Only if you buy a supper plate,” she teased.
“Doesn’t the Bible say something about not muzzling the ox while it treads the grain? After all, I’m carrying these to the table for you.”
“Okay, ox, have a cupcake.”
“You just called me an ox.” He feigned shock.
“You were the one bringing up Scripture.” At her words, they both laughed.
They used to laugh a lot, like this, long ago.
Rochelle led the way to the dessert table and placed her tray of cupcakes beside the other desserts. “I think there’s plenty, good thing.”
She glanced toward the fryers. Henry and Samuel and Tobias clustered around a large cooler.
“Plenty of catfish, too.” Silas followed her gaze.
“So, where are Lena and Matthew?”
“Lena is studying, and Matthew is coming with his aunt soon. Should be here any moment.”
Was it her imagination, or did Silas suddenly seem nervous?
She’d gotten over her nerves about being around him, reminding herself to live in the present despite the past trying to roar into her ears from time to time.
They headed back to the van for one more trip.
“How are you, Rochelle?”
“You asked me already.” She reached for another tray of cupcakes.
“No. The other night, on the way home. When we saw those young men, heading to the park. You froze.”
“Yes. I did. It had been a long time since I’d remembered how it felt . . .”
“I know what you mean. I used to wake up, from having nightmares about what happened.” Silas frowned.
She wasn’t going to have this conversation with him now, but supposed they needed to, since the last conversation they’d had about John was a disaster.
“I . . . I didn’t know. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” She smiled at Nellie Bontrager, who glided up on her tricycle. Nellie had promised to help serve potato salad and beans.
“I don’t know why God allowed it.”
“I always wish I knew.” She bit her lip. But she’d come to a calm acceptance now over the tragedy. She didn’t like the idea, but her screaming at God hadn’t helped years ago.
“We failed each other, and I’m sorry about it.”
We failed each other?
She couldn’t think of how she’d failed Silas, after what happened to John. She’d been racked with grief already over her mother.
“Well, it was all a long time ago, Silas.” She tried not to shrug, because she wasn’t trying to shrug off the pain or the history. “I think it best if we move forward from here.”
Wherever that was.
“Hoo-eee, those cupcakes look mighty delicious.” Henry snapped his suspenders and reached for a cupcake.
“Not you, too. Next thing you know, everyone will want one. And we haven’t even started serving yet.” Rochelle scolded him, but smiled as she did so. He’d worked wonders on fixing her washing machine, and the handyman definitely deserved a cupcake or two.
Henry grinned and picked up one with white frosting and multicolor sprinkles. “I need a bit of sugar before we get started. I see a line is beginning to form.”
Rochelle looked past the split-rail fence at the edge of the park. A small group had clustered together and stood watching the setup.
She kept her smile in place when she saw Silas staring at her. Normally life flowed for her here in Pinecr
aft. With her business, church, her friends, and the variety of activities in the village, she knew what to expect. Silas had upended things when he’d pulled into the village, with his minivan and trailer.
Her mother always said God knew what was going to happen. Sometimes, Rochelle wished He’d give her a bit of notice ahead of time.
* * *
Silas hadn’t intended on getting Rochelle’s dander up, but it happened. The other night, he’d been concerned about her, although she’d regained her composure after the moment of panic while walking home.
Years ago, with his brashness of youth and his pride, he’d let her down. She’d hurt him, too, with her words later on. He’d learned you couldn’t take back words any more than you could put toothpaste back in the tube.
“Well, you ready?” Henry said beside him. He licked his fingers after downing the cupcake he’d snagged from Rochelle in two bites.
“I think so.” He had never participated in a fish fry, not at this scale, anyway. An elderly Mennonite woman and her husband stood by the cooler of fish fillets, ready to apply the breading and crumbs. They would then pass a tray of breaded fish to Silas and Henry, who’d put the fish in a basket and immerse the fillets in the hot oil. After timing the fish to cook for a few minutes, the men would pull the baskets, then put the fish to drain, after which the servers would put the fish on plates, and so on.
The line officially opened for business, with volunteers collecting donations and the workers preparing the plates. Men wearing suspenders, women in all different sorts of kapps, as well as people in regular street clothes, from toddlers to the old, passed through the line.
“You settled in pretty well?” Henry asked.
“I think so. My children enjoy it here, so I’m thankful for some sense of normal life.”
“You’ve had a lot of changes in your life.”
“Yes. It seems life is all about change. Not changes I’d have chosen, either.”
“It would be nice if we could pick and choose, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it would.”
“So you’re a pilot?”
“Yes, I made my first solo flight not long after my twenty-first birthday. I knew God had a purpose for me flying, as nontraditional an occupation as it is.”
A Promise of Grace Page 10
